From my heart, who stutters over that age-old brag.

I walked out

onto the deck,

where you were sanding the railing,

and brushed off some cushions,

and it was wrong.

It was completely wrong.

I tried to use little words,

pointing out that they were dirty,

but it didn’t matter.

It was wrong.

It was all wrong.

Why, will I never be right in your eyes?

Why, am always an ant, intruding on your picnic blanket?

Squashed.

And cuddled when you’re happy and you want soft, whipped, custard

to curl your limbs around.

I am no dessert.

I am no sweet

heart,

in truth.

I am human .

And sometimes I beg God to give me a second chance,

to be a person,

some day —

maybe,

when I am old?

When all that I should have said,

have no more deaf ears on which to fall.

To my parents I wish I had said,

“I will not be your redemption”

To my teachers and tutors I wish I had said,

“I am not yours to mold”

To my children, whom I do not have yet, I wish I could say,

“I am not your automated need-filler,

your one size fits all solution

or even your virtuous hero”

(Though I strive everyday, even now, to be your virtuous hero.)

To this world I want to say,

“I am not your cause, your rallying cry,

your blot on an otherwise neat and tidy world.

I am not your enemy and I am not your hero.

I am not your obstacle, your ammunition or your

cleverly crafted slogan for a month.”

Even to my lover I want to say,

“I am not the sweetness of your life, your silver lining

your ever-present comfort,

or your well-deserved reward.”

“I, am a person,”

“I am, a person,”

“I, am a person,”

“I am, a person,”

is all I want to say. But,

oh, so difficult is a steady beat

for my sweet, my sour,

my arrythmiatic heart.

Originally published at https://vocal.media.